Daughter of Night

Daughter of Night

By Sasha McCallum

Copyright © 2018 Sasha McCallum

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, it may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to your favorite dealer and buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This is not erotica. This story is fictitious but it weaves mystical elements with sensitive, real subject matter which might upset some people. Characters, locations and incidents are the product of the writer's imagination, any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.

Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 1

I attended a seminar on anger early in my career—suppressed anger, aggressive anger, passive anger. Expressions of it in all its forms, as described by the experts.

Much of the audience would have been people from my sphere of employment, those who had dealt directly with the results of episodic aggressive outbursts as well as the long-term effects of suppressed anger. Occupational therapists, social workers, counsellors, addictions clinicians, a few CP investigators.

None of the speakers talked about personal experiences; they studied it objectively—labelled, categorized, medicated; treated. It was common, of course, to hear professionals disconnected; it was protocol and the system was broken. Lacking in every respect, I felt cheated by the lectures, they contained nothing I couldn't have read in my own time. I didn't want textbook, I wanted personal, I wanted something to assure me that my work, as sedentary as it felt sometimes, was worthwhile. I didn't know how I expected them to do this but looking around at the other listeners I thought maybe they felt the same—disappointed and trying not to yawn, pick their nails or play with their phones. I remember the urge to stand up and scream 'fakes!' but the system had me in its grip too.

In the end, it was through a very different method that my frustrations were abated, my qualms buried.

Two years ago I would have described myself as professionally overworked and emotionally repressed; a combination that did not result in a particularly gratifying physical state. I might have said I was dull and lifeless. I had secrets but none that were especially unique.

Late on a grey Wednesday in August that began to change. A deeper secret started to manifest, a secret that would switch from deep to dark as well. What started as a barely concealed romantic obsession would lead me into an experience that blew my humdrum reality apart. Though I still don't understand it completely myself, this is the story of those events.

I'd been dating Mathew for about three months and this particular night he was waiting for me outside my building when I arrived home. It was the first time he had done it and I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. He greeted me with a kiss and I smiled weakly back.

You really should have texted, I said. Tonight is not a good night, I've had a horrible day.

I can make it better for you, he countered cheerfully. I'll give you a backrub, run you a bath.

It sounded nice but what it really meant was that he wanted a backrub. I knew from experience that his were half-assed and performed only as an obligatory excuse to get one from me. I didn't love him and when they got serious enough to surprise visit me on a weeknight, offering to cure my problems, it was time to back away. I know this makes me sound like a bitch but simple bitchiness only scratched the surface of truth. I had mistaken Mathew for just as emotionally unavailable as I was.

My normal instinct was to put my own needs aside, invite him in and give him the company he clearly wanted but something was different about that night, I wasn't in my usual pushover state of mind. I stood awkwardly with my bags which, I noted, he did not offer to help me with, a detail that particularly irritated me. He lived only a few blocks over so it wasn't cruel to just send him away. Tonight was not the night for a breakup scene. A difficult case at work had me tired and depressed and all I wanted was to be alone. Mathew would try to make me talk about it, the absolute last thing I wanted to do.

"Tomorrow night, maybe. I need to make some calls and get an early night...to sleep," I told him. Not a total fabrication.

He held his hands up in surrender.

Alright, alright, he said and leaned forward to kiss me briefly again. Call me if you change your mind?

Will do, I agreed with a smile of relief and he ambled casually down the sidewalk.

It happened then, as I watched him walking away, holding my bags and despondent at the prospect of letting another nice-but-not-enough guy down. A moving truck hurtled around the corner of Plymouth and Lexington Streets, pulled over and slammed to a standstill at the loading area a few inches from where I was standing. It was so loud and sudden, tearing into my abstraction, my grip loosened in surprise and one of the bags I held dropped to the pavement. I cursed under my breath. Ignoring the burly men getting out of the front of the truck, I crouched to scoop the contents back into their place.

From the corner of my eye I saw a hand reach out to grasp a packet that had rolled further away and for a moment I assumed they were going to run off with it—just my luck.

It's mine, I snapped loudly.

I can see that, a woman's voice told me smoothly and moved closer. She held it out as I rose and looked at her.

It sounds farfetched, but I'm sure I felt something inside me shift the second I saw her face. Staring, I took the item and dropped it into a bag without concentrating on what I was doing. It fell straight back to the ground and the woman, who was paying less attention to me and more to the activity going on around the van, frowned and bent to pick it up again.

Sorry, I said clumsily and watched her push it into the bag herself. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Thank you.

You're welcome, she replied, still not looking at me.

This is the last of it, just a few boxes, one of the moving men called as he slid the back door of the truck open.

Yes. She moved toward them and I watched motionless, all of my previous depression forgotten.

Why the instant attraction I couldn't really grasp—maybe, like an animal, I sensed there was something different about this woman. She was pretty but a lot of people were and even if my same-sex tendencies weren't controlled with an iron fist, she was the complete opposite of my usual type. I had a history of going for dark hair and eyes, while this woman was blonde, her eyes a piercing blue. Besides which, aside from helping me with my parcels, and in doing so making me feel a fool, she had almost totally ignored me, had not even met my gaze. This was something I was unaccustomed to; I drew attention, at least from people seeing me for the first time. Was I in a masochistic mood? Her lack of interest intrigued me.

Feeling like an idiot for simply standing there, I pulled my gaze away and fumbled to get into the building and my first floor apartment. I saw boxes on the second floor landing above and my stomach jumped into my throat when the blonde followed the moving men in and led them up the stairs.

It was one thing for her to be in a neighboring building but to have her right upstairs from me? That was another. I had known number 5 was vacant; I'd heard work being done at odd hours and then for the past week, nothing. Inside, I greeted Gene and unloaded my bags but could not think about relaxing for the night; couldn't distract myself from the woman's pristine image. I had to investigate. Normally I ignored neighbors, kept more to myself than anyone else in the building but this was different. My initial reaction to her must be false; an introduction would lay my mind to rest—she would turn out to be quotidian and I could relieve myself of her company quickly and continue my boring night in peace. I locked my door and ascended the stairs in a worrying state of excitation. When I reached the top the two movers were just leaving.

You need anything else, give us a holler, the larger one yelled.

Thanks guys, I heard the woman call from the depths of number 5 and the older man winked as we passed each other. I approached the door which stood open, inviting and knocked on the side of the frame cautiously. She emerged from an inner room, all honey-colored hair, creamy skin and bright eyes.

Hello, she greeted mildly and moved toward a dark stained mahogany table on which two boxes sat. I peered around; the dining and living areas were open plan and a view through to the recently renovated kitchen was relatively unobstructed from where I stood.

They've got this place looking good, I commented. I never saw it before all the work though.

It's comfortable, she agreed, rummaging with her things.

Is it one bedroom or two?

I live alone if that's the purpose of your question, she said, smiling into a box.

I had yet to respond to her greeting or to introduce myself and it struck me as strange that she was willing to reveal she lived alone first. But it had been the reason I asked and the furtive smile on her rosebud lips was...yummy.

I saw you downstairs. It had been a long time since someone's mere presence had done this to me.

Yes, she nodded. You dropped your birth control pills. Twice. And another smile.

Fuck. Was that what it was? I had not been paying attention.

I wanted to meet you properly. I'm Eden, I live in number 3. She still didn't look at me and I was fully embarrassed for the few moments that lapsed before she answered.

Directly below me, she mumbled then lifted her head. You're going to hear noises. She caught my eye for the briefest of moments. Don't call the police.

Ah. I raised my brows